


Always there

by ShezzasCompanion



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drinking, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Reichenbach, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 06:25:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8152250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShezzasCompanion/pseuds/ShezzasCompanion
Summary: After Sherlock jumps to his death, there is one constant in his life: Gregory lestrade





	1. Chapter 1

Numb. That was the only word to describe John as he sat in the waiting room of the A&E. His couldn't process what he had witnessed. Sherlock, the phone call, the fall, the sight of Sherlocks body on the pavement, a bloody halo surrounding his hair, soaking this curly hair. His pale eyes looking upward.lifeless. dead.

A shuttered breath escaped John's lips as he stared down at the cup of hospital coffee that had been placed in his hands by a nameless and faceless nurse.

He had no idea how long he sat there on the cold, hard seat before he realised someone had sat next to him. Their knee gently touching his, the warmth of their body radiating towards his own.

John lifted his head and turned towards the man next to him, more than ready to turn his attention back to the cup of coffee. But he couldn't, not as Greg Lestrade looked back at him.

It wasn't difficult to notice how much older Greg looked, his brow furrowed, shoulders hunched, and hands clasped together. This had affected him just as badly. Of course it had, he had known Sherlock for years. Long before John had.

Silence stretched between them and John looked away, uncertain what to say if he could say anything at all. He flexed his hand around the paper cup as he searched for something anything to say.

"Lets get you home hmm?" Greg asked finally breaking the silence. "I'm sure you're tired of being here."

Relief flooding John at the fact he didn't have to say anything. John nodded slowly in response as Greg pushed himself up. However , John couldn't bring himself to move. He sat still in the hard chair as Greg stood next to him, waiting patiently. 

It took a few moments for Greg to realize he wasn't going to stand on his own and with gentle hands he pulled the coffee from John's, setting it on the small table John had failed to notice before.

"Come on, I'll help you up." Greg's voice was soft as he gently grabbed John's arms, helping to pull him to his feet. 

Neither of them spoke as Greg helped him to the car out behind the hospital, far away from the pool of blood left by Sherlock. 

 

Greg watched John out of the corner of his eye as he drove him back to Baker street. The doctor was silent as he leaned against the window of Greg's car, staring out at the passing city, but hs doubted he saw anything.

Greg felt a pang in his chest for the blonde in his car. He had witnessed something Greg had witnessed a few times on the Job, however he wasn't as close to the person as he was now. But he didn't have to live in the flat with all of the reminders. But as they pulled up to he kerb in front of 221B, Greg silently promised he would be there for John, for as long as he needed.


	2. Chapter 2

The time between taking John home and the funeral is little more than a week, though it seems more time had passed.

John had planned the majority of the service himself, though he couldn't bring himself to pick out the coffin and headstone, something Greg discovered when he stopped by after his interview with Internal affairs. (He and his entire department had come under scrutiny after his practices came to light.) 

John had been sitting in his chair, staring at the empty one across from him. On the floor besides him laid the brochure from the funeral home that had taken Sherlock's body from the morgue. 

"Mrs. Hudson let me in." Greg said as he announced his presence. John's head moved minutely, acknowledging the fact Greg was there

The inspector moved to sit on the sofa, he didn't mind spending time there, even in silence as long as John knew he wasn't alone 

"I can't do it." John stated, breaking the silence. "I can't"

Can't do what?" Greg asks as he leans forward, elbows digging into his thighs

"I can't bury him. I can't sit here and casually look at caskets and headstones like I'm shopping for a pair of shoes."

John's voice sounds hallow and it stabs Greg in the chest.

"He didn't have anything planned in case he died....no plot...no casket picked out...no idea of headstone. He had a bloody sock index but no final plans made. Not even for his line of work."

The hallow voice is laced with bitterness.

In the end, it is Greg who picks out the sleek black headstone and the cashmere blue casket in which Sherlock's body lays. It takes the burden off of John, gives him a chance to breathe before he sets up the service at the Abby In the cemetery where Sherlock is to be buried.

Where Greg is waiting patiently now. The service starts in fifteen minutes and yet a good portion of the pews are still empty. He blames the articles in the paper.

Sherlock's casket is already at the church, behind the podium where the pastor on hand will speak in a few moments. The coffin's lid is closed, to save him, to save John from seeing Sherlock's too pale face and crushed skull.

John comes to sit next to him a few moments before the service. He looks tired, more so than the last time Greg had seen him. But this is not the time nor the place to mention it. Its to be expected anyway. Grief can do that to people.

After the service, Greg takes John back to Baker street himself. He wants to make sure the doctor gets there. Its not the type of day either of them should be alone anyway.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The smell of tobacco still lingered in the air like notes on a music sheet. Towards the back bedroom, the air still smelled of him and his cologne. It served as a constant reminder that Sherlock wasn't there even If his scent still was.    
  
He leaned forward on the desk, burying his head in his hands as he took a deep breath. The last few weeks had begun to take it's toll on him. He was back where he started when he had run into Sherlock eighteen months ago. Alone. Depressed.    
  
Perhaps it would have been more manageable if he didn't live in a place that smelled so much of Sherlock, that contained all of his belongings, that held so many memories of the two of them. But he had nowhere else to go.    
  
He was unemployed, had been for months. There was no money to for first and last months rent and a deposit. There was barely enough money to go back and forth to see Ella once a week.    
  
"John?" A voice called from the doorway, pulling John from his thoughts and he lowered his hands and turned his head to find Greg standing in the doorway of The flat.    
  
From the looks of it, he had just come from the station. Dressed in his suit and long coat, though the bag in his hand was something John only noticed after he motioned for him to come in and join in.    
  
"I hope you don't mind but I picked you up something to eat." Greg stated sheepishly as he lifted the plastic bag, take out containers obvious.   
  
Good old Greg had taken to dropping by once a week and had been for the last month.    
  
Maybe that was one of the reasons he was still hanging on

 

"You didn't have to Greg." John muttered as Greg set the bag down in front of him and began to take out the containers. The some of Thai filled the air, covering up Sherlock's lingering scent.    
  
"I know I didn't have to. I wanted to. You look like you haven't properly eaten in weeks."

 

John didn't reply. It was true, he hadn't been eating much lately. He couldn't find the motivation to make himself something and what Mrs. Hudson brought upstairs to him didn't seem that appealing.   
  


John stayed quiet as he watched Greg dish out the food. 

 

The smell was enticing and for a moment it covered up the scent of Sherlock still present in the flat.    
John's stomach growled and Greg shot him a smile. 

 

The food Greg passed his way was not rejected, though it wasn't completely welcome either. 

  
  


Greg sat across from John as he picked at his food, blocking John's view of Sherlock’s chair. 

 

He had chosen that spot on purpose. 

 

Greg had known John had spent most of his time staring at the grey leather chair that was now gathering a layer of dust. 

 

At least he had been every other time he had come to see John. 

 

Perhaps the doctor was still in denial. Perhaps he had been running that day over and over in his mind again and again. 

 

Doing that would eventually drive John to drink. It was a surprise he already wasn't. Any lesser man would have by now. He himself had just recently taken up smoking again. 

 

When dinner was over Greg had put the leftovers in the fridge for John to eat later. 

 

“I'll see you alright alright John? Take care of yourself.” 

 

“Yeah, you too Greg.”


	4. Chapter 4

It was the night John dreaded the most, lying upstairs in his bed listening to the flat settle, the phantom sounds of someone moving around in the sitting room below him. He could almost hear the faint notes being played on the stradivarius that lied in its case next to the stand behind Sherlock’s grey leather chair. However,he knew that was impossible, the owner and player of the violin would never play it again. 

John tried to ignore the sounds his mind produced, tried to focus on something else as he attempted to drift off to sleep. 

But if the phantom sounds of Sherlock did not get him, the nightmares did. 

 

“Stay right where you are..keep your eyes fixed on me” Sherlock’s voice said through the receiver Standing above him, on the edge of the pathology building, John could make out Sherlock’s silhouette. His heart was pounding against his ribs. 

No. 

“This is what people do isn’t leave a note?”

No. No. God No. How could he have missed this?

“Sherlock I’m coming up!”

John had tried to run, propelling himself one foot in front of the other, but he wasn’t moving forward. The distance between him and the building stayed the same. 

“Goodbye John.”

He could see Sherlock falling, his arms and legs flailing before the horrible sound of his body impacting the concrete met his ears 

Then and only then did he move, He could see Sherlock’s blood covered face and hair, his eyes staring up at him as he knelt down to take a pulse. 

“You didn’t notice the signs John. This is all your fault!”

John bolted straight up, his body drenched in sweat as his chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. 

It was always the same premises, even if there where parts missing. He could see Sherlock’s blood covered face and blood soaked curls. He could hear Sherlock’s voice in his ear, breaking as he tries to tell John good bye. He could hear the sound of Sherlock’s body hitting the ground just beyond the ambulance station. Sometimes he could make it up the stairs to the roof in just enough time to see Sherlock Fall or it would replay like a memory, with Sherlock’s voice telling him at the end it was his fault. 

A sob escaped John’s lips as he brought his knees to chest, his arms wrapping around them as he attempted to breathe. Hot tears slid down his cheeks as his chest heaved with silent sobs as his fingers curled around the fabric of his duvet. 

God, why did he have to be the one to see Sherlock die? Why did he have to see Sherlock splayed on the ground like he did? Why did it keep haunting him?

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Sherlock had left him, that he had made him watch him die. 

He couldn’t do this, He couldn’t keep reliving that day over and over again. Not without going insane. 

But he had nowhere else to go.   
A shuddered breath left John’s lips as he shoved the covers off of his body and he threw his legs over the side of his bed. 

John stumbled towards his dresser, pulling out the third drawer before rummaging through it to find what he was looking for. He wiped his face on the back of his hand as he pulled out the bottle of whiskey Harry had given him for Christmas. 

He stared at the bottle in hand as he withdrew it from the drawer. He had promised himself that he wouldn’t drown his sorrows in liquor, but this was different. He wasn't drowning his sorrows. He was drowning his dreams. 

In a swift movement, John twisted off the cap and placed the glass rim against his lips and tilted his head back. 

A hangover was better then a nightmare. At least then he wouldn't see Sherlock dead.


	5. Chapter 5

Empty bottles littered the flat floor and the smell of alcohol permeated the air. Drinking had helped the stop the nightmares, it had helped stop the phantom sounds, it had silence everything that had kept him up. At a cost. 

 

John groaned as his head pounded. The light was too bright, the sounds of life outside were too loud. Even his own heartbeat and breathing were enough to cause his head to split in half. He hated it. 

 

He hated the fact he couldn't drown everything out without the alcohol, but he hated the hangover that accompanied him the next morning. 

 

He popped open the bottle of aspirin and popped two in his mouth before emptying the glass of water he had poured himself. 

 

He closed his eyes for a moment as he attempted to lessen the pounding in his head before slowly turning to observe the darkened flat. 

 

It didn't look too bad if the bottles were ignored and if he picked up the glasses and mugs and cleaned up the place a bit, no one would know the difference. 

 

John shuffled around, picking up the glassware, placing it in the sink before going back around to pick up the empty bottles of liquor and placing them in the bin.

 

He had to pretend things were going to be fine. Just fine…

 

“Smells like you had a party in here.” Greg's voice carried from the front door “not throwing parties and forgetting to invite me are you?” 

 

John shuffled out of the kitchen, cursing himself. Greg. How could he forget Greg was bound to come over and not dispose of the alcohol bottles in the bin outside?

 

“No...just felt like a drink.” John answered sheepishly as he scratched the back of his neck. 

 

Greg nodded once as he twirled his keys in his hand. His eyes scanning the room, taking in it's appearance before they finally fell upon John. 

 

John. The once put together man, even on his worst days looked as if he had been through hell and back.  His hair was standing on end as if he has just gotten out of bed, his eyes were bloodshot and had bags under his eyes. In short, he appeared as if he had aged ten years in the weeks Greg had seen him. 

 

“Define a drink.” Greg asked as he stepped into the flat and looked around. It was something he did when he had first started to work with Sherlock. Only he was looking for containers instead of white powder and baggies. 

 

“Just a drink Greg, I’m fine honestly.” John stated as the officer stopped in the middle of the sitting room. The look on his face made it obvious he was skeptical to John being fine. 

 

“I think you and I have a different definition of fine John.” Greg remarked. “I don't think staying here is good for you. Its just a constant reminder….if you need a place...I’ve got plenty of room.” 

 

It took John a moment to process Greg's words. He was offering him a place. Away from here. Away from the phantom sounds and the familiar smells and the damn empty grey chair.

 

“I- Thank You Greg. But honestly things are fine.”

  
“Alright...well the offer still stands if you change your mind.”


	6. Chapter 6

Greg had no idea what had possessed him to offer John a place. Perhaps It was the fact he had seen what Baker street was doing to him. He could smell the liquor, see the sleepless nights on his face. Hell he had even see the bin full of beer bottles over John’s shoulder. Perhaps it had to do with the feeling in his chest and the fluttering in his stomach when he saw him. Perhaps it was because he wouldn't have minded the company at home. The flat was large and spacious for him, it had more space then he would ever need now that he was divorced, and perhaps it would do both of them good. 

 

If John ever took him up on his offer. 

 

He knew John could be stubborn, almost as stubborn as his one time flatmate. He just hoped that John wouldn't try to do this alone. 

  
The tumbler he had been drinking from sailed across the room, smashing against the   
far wall, spattering alcohol on the wall paper, causing the glass to rain down onto the floor, John’s chest heaved as he looked at the mess he created before staring at the smiley face that just seemed to taunt him.

 

“What are you smiling at?!? WHAT ARE YOU SMILING AT? HE’S DEAD. HE’S DEAD; HE’S   
FUCKING DEAD AND YET YOU STILL FUCKING SMILE.” He yelled, grabbing the closest   
thing to him, the bottle he had been drinking from, and hurled it at the wall. Watching as it too smashed to pieces. “IT’S NOT FUNNY, STOP SMILING!” Everything and anything he could grab and throw hit the wall with crashes and thuds: Books,   
glassware, shoes, papers, even the Swiss army knife went flying to the wall,and that stuck. Stabbing the smiling face right between the eyes.

 

It was getting to be too much, the constant reminders, the smells, the damn empty chair. John just couldn't take it anymore. The smiling face on the wall was the last reminder. He had seen Sherlock spray paint It on the wall, and it seemed to be mocking him with it's fake smile. 

 

John collapsed onto the sofa, chest heaving as the adrenaline left his body. He couldn't stay there. Not anymore. Not after just snapping. 

 

With shaking legs he stood and made his way towards the table near his chair. 

 

His palms were sweaty as he reached for his mobile. 

 

John stared at the screen for the longest time before dialing the one person who he knew would answer. 

  
“G-Greg...it's John.I'll take you up on that offer.” 


	7. Chapter 7

Greg had been surprised to find that John had everything he owned packed before he arrived. It wasn't much, enough to fill two boxes. One of which was just clothes. The rest was just the small thing. Mementos from cases and the army. It was a pitiful sight really. To see someone like John own so little, but he didn’t mention it. Instead he took the topmost box that had been sitting on the floor by the flat door and carried it down to the car before John could protest. He wanted to give John a moment to say goodbye to his home. 

Greg had already settled the box he had been carrying in the back seat of his car by the time John appeared carrying the other one that held his belongings. He offered Greg a tight lipped smile as he handed the box with his clothes over to be placed in the back of Greg’s car. 

“I-I appreciate this Greg, you have no idea.” John said quietly as The officer places the box on the seat next to the other one. 

“It’s no problem.” 

John nodded slowly before Greg motioned for him to get in the car. He moved slowly to the passenger side and stood there for a moment while Greg slipped inside and started The car. He turned his gaze up to the window Sherlock would stand in front of and for a moment he half expected to see the outline of His friend hiding behind the sheer curtain. 

But there was nothing. The window was empty. 

John took a deep breath and opened the door before sliding in next to Greg. 

“Ready?”

“As I'll ever be.” 

The car ride was silent, just as silent as when Greg took John home from the hospital. However it was different than before, perhaps it was because John was coming home with him instead of staying alone. Or maybe it was because things between him and John felt differently since he had continued to visit him once a week since Sherlock had died. Whatever it was, he was just happy John wouldn't be alone.


	8. Chapter 8

"Here we are." 

 

Greg's flat is modern and tidy, even for a man who works as many hours as he does. 

"It's not much but it's nice. Home" the what I could get after the divorce goes unsaid as he motions John inside.

 

It's different than baker street with the neutral colors and the accent wallpaper that matched The rest of the place. The furniture was minimal, just a sofa, coffee table, and an arm chair. There were no piles of paper, no questionable objects. It looked...comfortable and homely and a place he could get used to. 

 

Greg Balances the box he had been carrying on his hip as he closes the door and motions John to follow him as he heads down the hall next to the kitchen. 

“This is your room.” Greg Annonces as he opens the first door on the right, revealing a rather nice room. The walls are covered in a soft off white that pairs well with the dark blue drapes and matching duvet which adores the double bed near the wall. 

 

"Thank you." John said quietly as he stepped into the room and placed the box on the bed. It was more than he expected if he was honestly. He thought that Greg would have made up the sofa, or perhaps gotten an inflatable mattress, the last thing he was expecting was a room of his own. “Really. Thank You.”

 

“Here are the rest of your things” Greg smiled at John’s back as he entered the room, setting the box in his hands on the bed next to the one already there. “I was thinking about order takeaway while you unpacked is there anything in particular you want?”

 

“Anything is fine” John answered as he began to remove his clothes from the box in front of him, laying them out on the bed. Greg lingered besides him for a moment before turning to leave, pausing for a moment to touch his shoulder. 

 

“Things will be alright John. I know it doesn't feel like it, but it’ll get easier.”

 

John nodded, he found he couldn't reply to Greg, at least not without his voice breaking. How would he know that it got easier? How would he know what it was like to watch someone you loved died?

 

Perhaps his divorce had caused him similar pain? Maybe he was just sympathetic. Either way, John did not move to fill the wardrobe until Greg had left to make an order for dinner. 

* * *

 

They sat together on the sofa, eating Chinese off of disposable plates with the telly on nothing of true interest. John’s body was warm where it was pressed against Greg’s side and Greg couldn't help but feel a flutter in his stomach at the feeling. 

 

He had honestly been surprised that John had chosen to sit next to him on the sofa instead of the arm chair. Though he wasn’t going to complain. 

 

“You’ll have this place to yourself tonight, I’m working a night shift at the yard.”Greg stated as he placed his plate on the coffee table and turned to look at John. “Hope thats alright.”

 

“Yeah, Thats fine. I’ll call you if I need anything.”


	9. Chapter 9

_It was the same, Sherlock standing on the ledge, talking to him through the phone, but this time John ran. He ran to him, trying to stop him from falling. But he didn't make it. He had just made it to the doors when he heard the sickening sound of Sherlock hitting the ground. The sound of bone and flesh impacting the cement made his stomach roll as he turned to see Sherlock lying on the sidewalk, blood oozing from his head._

John bolted upright, his body covered in sweat and his chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. It felt as if he had run a marathon as he gulped down the cool night air to ease the pain of his burning lungs. 

For a moment he had expected Mrs. Hudson to come up the stairs to see if he was alright, and then John remembered where He was as he looked around the bedroom. He had moved in with Greg to escape Baker street and the memories of Sherlock that it held. But it still seemed that that night would haunt him. Just like Afghanistan had. 

John had never been more thankful to be alone then at that moment. He didn't think He could face Greg if he had been home. The imagine of the Silver haired man bursting into John's room as he heard him scream flashed through the doctor's mind and he felt embarrassed at the thought of waking the officer had he been home. 

He would have to explain why he had screamed, perhaps he would have had to talk about why he was screaming and that was the last thing he wanted. 

But what would Greg do when he found out? Would he get kicked out for constantly waking the officer once he was on a different rotation? He didn't think so. But he couldn't be sure. Sherlock didn't, but he had understood. He had just taken one look at John the first morning after John had slept at Baker Street. After that the brunette had taken to playing his violin for John on those nights. 

John closed his eyes. He had to stop comparing Sherlock and Greg. They were two different people and one was there while the other wasn't. 

The doctor flung off the covers as He got out of bed after sitting there for a while. He didn't think he could go back to sleep and he didn't want to. Seeing Sherlock dying once in a night was good enough for him. Instead he grabbed his dressing gown off the back of the door and threw it around himself before heading to Greg's kitchen. 

It took some time before he found the kettle and put it on before going to turn on the TV for some noise. John kept himself occupied by looking around the kitchen, learning it's layout, as he waited for the kettle to boil. The mugs, plates, and other dishes were above the sink while the pots and pans where in the cupboard next to the stove. Greg kept cleaning supplies under the sink while canisters on the counter held sugar, flour, tea, and coffee. It was easy enoug to remember and a rather practical set up in John's mind. 

Once the water had been heated and his tea made, John seated himself at Greg's small kitchen table.

That was where Greg found him When he arrived home a few hours later. The officer was surprised to find the television on as he stepped into his flat and it took a few seconds to realize that John was already up. It surprised him of course. He had taken John for someone who valued their sleep, especially since he had spent a good deal chasing after Sherlock at all hours.

"Morning." Greg greeted as he toed off his shoes and he hung up his coat.

"Morning" John yawned behind his hand as the officer shuffled into the kitchen. He moved towards the cupboard to fish a mug from a shelf before he moved towards the kettle. Steam poured out as he lifted the lid to check the water levels. John couldn't have been up that long then.

Once He had his cup of tea in hand he turned and looked at his New flat mate. The doctor looked tired, there were bags under his eyes and he kept trying to hid a yawn behind his hand.

"Sleep well?"

"Yeah..I suppose."

Neither of them said a word while Greg finished his cup.

"I'm going to bed for a bit." he announced as he deposited the empty mug in the sink. "Feel free to make yourself something if You get hungry." He told John before heading to hid room for some much needed sleep. 


	10. Chapter 10

John had grown accustomed to Greg's late night schedule. It meant he could pretend to get up early and there where no questions as to why. Greg didn't know about his nightmares and he wanted to keep it that way. Greg had opened up his home and the last thing John wanted to do was to burden him with his screams. 

But Greg's night shift couldn't last forever. 

Three weeks after John moved in, Greg was rotated to mornings and John dreaded it. It meant that the officer would be home at night. If John wasn't careful he would find out about his nightmares and that wasn't something that John wanted. 

The first night, John spent awake, staring up at the ceiling. Watching the lights from the street dance across the white surface as time passed slowly. He forced himself to stay awake.He tossed and turned before pulling out his mobile to find something to read. 

He spent the next few hours reading medical article, the emails from his sister, he even dared to open a few of the hateful messages people had sent to Sherlock even though the man was dead. 

It was enough to keep him awake, at least until Greg left that morning. 

He tried to sleep during the day, but he found it difficult, instead he busier himself. He looked for things to do. He went to therapy like he was supposed to, he even began looking for a job to help Greg with expenses. 

Staying up all night began to catch up with John, however. The bags under his eyes looked more like steamer trunks and Greg began to give him concerned glances over shared take out and home cooked dinners. However, John ignored them. Looks could be shoved off, it was the questions he was dreading. But the questions never came. 

John began to find himself dozing off and on and he began to force himself to stay awake with coffee and caffeine filled drinks. He didn't want to burden Greg with his problems, he told himself one morning as he downed another cup of coffee. The man had other things to worry about and John felt that if Greg had to help him any more than he already had, it would take away from more important things. 

John sighed as he scrubbed his hands over his face as he stared down into the black pool in his mug. He was exhausted and Greg was still at work. Perhaps he could just close his eyes for a few moments and just recharge things would be alright....

John left his coffee cup on the table and made his way towards his bedroom. It was an overcast day and despite the fact he didn't sleep during the day, he was too tired to even notice. 

The doctor ungracefully flopped down onto the mattress and closed his eyes. 

The next thing John knew, someone was shaking him awake. His eyes flew open and he bolted upright, nearly headbutting Greg in the process. 

John had no idea what he had been dreaming about, But whatever it had been, it had gotten Greg's attention. The blonde turned his head and took in the silver haired man, his brow pulled together with worry. 

"I didn't mean to wake you John." Greg explained. "But when I came in you were yelling in your sleep, I figured you were dreaming." 

Embrassment and shame colored John's face at Greg's words. 

"I'm fine. It must have been the TV."

"The television wasn't on." 

"Perhaps It was a radio."

"John..."

There was a softness to Greg's voice and John turned away from the other man. 

"Why didn't you say something about this?"

"I'm already taking your spare room, I haven't contributed anything, you have enough to worry about with out my dreams to top it off..."

 "John. Right now, you are my main concern. Work will always be there, I have more than enough time off. You are mourning, I don't expect you to bounce back right away. I just want to help You, if you'll let me. And I hope you will "


End file.
